


Undertow

by thebaddestwolf



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebaddestwolf/pseuds/thebaddestwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David's pulse speeds up and he’s pretty sure he’s leering, but he can’t help it because this is the part he loves the most -- that moment in the ebb and flow of their flirting when they teeter on the edge, each of them taunting the other, tempting them to be the first to take it too far.</p><p>(An angsty take on what might've gone on behind the scenes at Philly Wizard World Con...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undertow

They couldn’t help but fall back into it.

It’s the lie David tells himself later, after they fly home and tuck their Doctor Who memories back into the safe recesses of their minds.

It’s not the truth, though. Because how can you fall back into something you never fell out of? 

***

Billie trains her gaze on the unfamiliar skyline as the cab streaks along the highway. The driver is a bit aggressive and every so often the car jolts to a stop, making her lurch forward, seatbelt digging sharply into her sternum.

But she doesn’t mind; it’s nice to remember what it feels like to slow down -- she cut the brake lines of her life long ago.

The car careens through an underpass and she closes her eyes, fingertips fluttering across her lips. It’s one of her favorite things to do -- picking at this scab. The one they created a decade ago when they had less to lose, when memorizing scripts came easy and they came fast and hard.

She doesn’t remember why they used to resist it, why they caused themselves so much grief fighting against the current. It’s much more fun getting dragged under.

Her mobile buzzes in her lap and she smiles because she knows it’s him.

_Have you landed?_

_Yes. Nearly there._

_Brilliant. I’m at Starbucks -- coffee or tea?_

_If you don’t know the answer to that question by now I’m going back to the airport._

_I’ll get you an extra espresso shot then, shall I?_

_Lovely, thanks._

_See you soon. x_

***

David bounces his knee as he waits for her in the lobby, triple-shot soya latte nearly burning his fingers through the paper cup. He positions it so the words he scribbled in a wave of sentimentality are facing out.

The revolving door spins and then she’s there, pushing her sunglasses onto her head as she scans the vast space. There’s something about watching her look for him that makes his stomach bottom out. He stands and strolls over, grinning when she finally notices him.

“Oh, hello.”

He leans in to kiss her cheek but she turns, catching the corner of his mouth. He lets his lips linger on her skin longer than he probably should.

“Hello yourself. That for me?”

Her fingers ghost over his as she takes the cup, smile blooming when her eyes fall to the black letters.

“I haven’t been Carlos Carlos in a long time.” She laughs and squeezes his arm. “Wait, wait -- give me yours.”

He raises an eyebrow as she places her bag on a chair and digs around until she finds a stick of eyeliner. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes as he takes his tea and begins to write, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

When she hands the drink back to him with a triumphant grin he shakes his head.

“Come on, Piper,” he says. “Let’s get you checked in.”

He walks with her to reception and holds his cup with the scribbled  _Teninch_  facing out.

***

They catch up as she flits about her room getting ready, covering all the requisite bases -- work and kids and mutual friends -- so they can slip into the comfort of their usual banter and ignore the years stretched between them.

“Aren’t you getting all glammed up today.”

She finishes applying her lipstick and peers at him over her shoulder.

“Figured I should make an effort. Last time we looked like we’d just rolled out of bed.”

“Well, we had.”

Her jaw drops in mock indignation as she saunters over to where he’s sitting on her bed and straddles his knee. His hands instinctively go to her waist, thumb brushing over the black cotton of her dress until he finds her hipbone.

“Don’t think you’ve ever acknowledged that aloud before.”

Smirking, he holds her in place as he stands, pressing his body against hers. It’s an attempt to set her off balance, but her breath is hot on his neck and, shit, the plan backfires. Her palms come to rest on his chest and he swallows, ducking his head so his lips ghost the shell of her ear.

“We should go,” he says. “We’re already late.”

It’s cold in the room, but when he finally steps away her cheeks are pink.

***

Billie walks off stage feeling as though they’ve given themselves away -- again -- but she can’t find it in herself to care.

He stays behind to pose for photos and sign a few autographs, and when he finally meets her in the adjoining room she pokes him in the ribs and tells him he’s overcompensating.

(She knows he’s not -- it’s just the kind of bloke he is. Always giving, breaking off chunks of himself until there's almost nothing left. It’s in his DNA and she loves him for it, unsustainable as it may be.)

Laughing, he settles in a chair next to her and takes a bottle of water from a volunteer. She kicks at his shin and he catches her, squeezing her ankle.

“Wait, I forgot.” He frowns. “I’m cross with you.”

“Oh my god.” She giggles and covers her face with her hands. “You realize you literally weren’t an eligible answer for that question, don’t you?”

“I do realize that, but I took offense to your word choice.”

“What are you on about?”

“ _Dreamy_.” He grimaces. It’s meant to be facetious but she knows better. “Hardly seemed necessary.”

“Ooh, that’s what this is about.” She rests her foot on his knee and he loosens his grip. “So I can’t call another man dreamy, is that it?”

He shrugs, fingers smoothing along her calf.

“Not another Doctor, anyway.”

“The ego on you, Teninch!”

He arches an eyebrow at her and she narrows her gaze.

“With a nickname like that, can you blame me?”

“That nickname is purely word-play.”

“Is that so?”

A shiver runs through her as his finger trails along her tights and dips under her knee. She’s vaguely aware of a staff member approaching and moves her foot from his lap.

They stand and smile and dutifully follow the worker down narrow back corridors to the exhibit hall. Before they step back into the throng, Billie catches David’s sleeve and stands on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

“I think I lied.”

His brow furrows and she presses her lips together as she walks ahead.

“You think. You’re not sure?”

It’s not her fault if her hips switch a little more than usual when she turns to look back at him.

“You should probably prove it to me later.”

***

They don’t have enough time to go out for lunch, so they order in and eat in a tiny break room, finally alone for the first time since this morning. They’ve got two greasy, proper American cheeseburgers -- Billie’s request -- and she moans when she bites into hers in a way that makes David regret wearing such tight jeans.

“The burgers are always gorgeous here,” she says, taking another bite. “Why aren’t they this good back home.”

He pops a chip into his mouth and tilts his head, pondering.

“Probably because we don’t pump our cows full of steroids.”

She groans. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

“Sorry.” He smirks and tucks into his burger. “Mmm, genetically modified beef product.”

“Rude!”

She tosses a chip at his face and he dodges it, but the next one hits him square in the chest.

“Watch it!” Laughing, he brushes at his shirt with a napkin. “You’re really gunning for my outfit today, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

“Your comment about not liking suit jackets paired with t-shirts.”

He raises an eyebrow at her and gestures to his torso.

“Oh, come off it -- I wasn’t talking about  _you_. Quite like that look on you, actually.” She drags her gaze down his body, lingering where the shirt pulls across his chest, and David shifts in his seat. “One might say you’re more fit than ever, in fact.”

“Really?” He shoves a few more chips in his mouth. “What else might one say?”  

His pulse speeds up and he’s pretty sure he’s leering, but he can’t help it because this is the part he loves the most -- that moment in the ebb and flow of their flirting when they teeter on the edge, each of them taunting the other, tempting them to be the first to take it too far.

(There’s guilt, too, swirling amongst his heated adrenaline, but he tamps it down until later.)

“One might say you’re taking the things I said on stage too literally.”

Well, that’s not where he thought this was going. He chuckles and looks down at his takeaway, suddenly feeling unsteady.

“So I should take nothing we said up there literally, then?”

The question doesn’t come out as casually as he’d wanted and, oh, this is a new level of dangerous territory on which they don’t normally tread. He knows it was a performance, earlier -- showmanship on both their parts -- and maybe the words he’d struggled to say came so easily to her because they’d lost their meaning.

She takes a sip of water and leans back in her chair, eyes soft and looking somewhere over his shoulder.

“You didn’t speak into the microphone, you know,” she says, looking down at her hands.

“Pardon?”

“When you said it.”

She meets his gaze, then, and the wistful depths of her eyes give him gooseflesh. He sags against his chair and sort of shrugs, surrendering to the undertow.

“It wasn’t for them.”

***

Hours later, when they collapse onto the sofa in another backroom -- this one crowded with other featured guests -- Billie tries to process what he’d said at lunch.

He’d barely gotten the words out before there was a knock on the door telling them it was time for their photo session, and their half-eaten meals and things unsaid were soon left behind. It’s not like she didn’t know, or that they hadn’t said it before, but there’s something sobering and raw about it, this time.

And she feels crass for having cajoled the words from him in front of everyone -- because picking at her own scab is one thing, but she’d never want to tear at his.

His hand lands on her knee and he smiles at her and, though the room is filled with noise she can’t stand the silence.

“My face aches,” she says, pressing her palms to her cheeks. “I’m never smiling again.”

“I’m holding you to that.” He smirks and quirks his eyebrow.

“Stop it!” She swats at his chest, giggling.

“What?”

He lowers his brow then raises it again.

“Come on, I mean it!”

“Fine.”

He fixes her with the most serious expression he can manage and stares blankly ahead.

“Oh my god, you’re the worst!”

Her hand covers his and she squeezes it as she dissolves into laughter, eyes shining as she grins at him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, failing to suppress a smile. “This is just my face.”

“Then I hate your face.” She wipes her eyes and glares at him, then rests her forehead on his shoulder and closes her eyes. “I refuse to look at you.”

“Suit yourself.”

Her giggles die down as she breathes him in and, when his arm curls around her shoulders, she relaxes and sighs.

And it hits her then that she wants to tell him -- that even though she bares her emotions for all to see it doesn’t make them any less true. She learned early on in this business that the truth always comes out, eventually, so it’s better to tell everyone straight away -- even make a joke of it -- because at least there’s ownership in that.

She tilts her head upward and opens her mouth, but the words snag in her throat because she’s worried they’ll do more harm than good; because where would they go from there?

Instead she presses her lips to the side of his neck and exhales when she feels his on her temple.

She drapes her hand across his waist, nestling further into him, and, though it hurts, the smile doesn’t leave her face.

***

He’s sitting on her bed again. It’s jarring -- he feels like they were just here, like they never even left. Like they stepped through a fold in time.

She’s humming to herself, a song that was her favorite back when they first met, and he shudders; not a TARDIS in sight and he’s time traveling.

Their autograph sessions were long and draining, probably because they were kept separate -- not even within view. His line was never ending but he decided to stop on time and add an extra session the next day rather than miss spending precious time with her.

“I can’t believe you booked a hotel room and aren’t even staying the night,” he says, watching her sort through her suitcase. “That’s proper diva behavior, Bills.”

“Well, you never offered to share yours…”

She winks at him, then goes back to her task.

“I can’t convince you to change your flight?”

She pauses, ankle fidgeting from side to side, and turns to look at him through her lashes, chin resting on her shoulder.

“Wish I could.”

It’s heart-wrenching, the way her eyes don’t leave his face as he moves to stand behind her. He closes his arms around her waist and ducks his head to plant a kiss on her shoulder. There’s a shirt in her hand, faded and plaid, and he focuses on it in an attempt to ignore the inked letters on her forearm.

“I’m glad we did this,” he says, holding her tighter. “Thanks for changing your schedule.”

“Of course.” She drops the shirt back in the suitcase and covers his arms with hers. “Always.”

There are so many things he wants to tell her but he’s already said too much, so he presses his lips to the side of her neck, then that spot she likes just behind her ear.

“Dave,” she starts, and he shushes her, trailing his tongue along her skin. “You know, don’t you? You must…”

He slides his hands down her body, over her hips and under the hem of her dress. Her tights are smooth beneath his fingertips and he scratches at the fabric, skating up the insides of her thighs. When her breath hitches he bites her shoulder. 

 “I know,” he says. She turns in his arms and he cradles her jaw. “I’ve always known.”

She kisses him and his world shifts, clicking back into place for the first time since she last touched him like this. It’s frantic but slow, her lips moving over his as his hand tangles in her hair.

He blindly walks her backwards, in the general direction of the bed, until foot catches on something and they go tumbling down, landing partially on the mattress. The impact causes her teeth to close around his bottom lip, but it’s a good sort of pain, and he digs his nails into her waist as he settles himself between her legs.

He’s got her dress down to her hips and these frustrated cries are building in her throat and, as he captures her nipple in his mouth, he thinks he’d like to tease her like this for a while. Then he remembers that she has a flight to catch.

“How long do we have?”

She huffs, shoving at his chest so she can push his jeans down his legs.

“What?”

“When is the car bringing you to the airport?”

“Oh, fuck.” His trousers fall to the floor and she flops back on the mattress. Her brow furrows as she turns to look at the clock. “Seventeen minutes.”

“We’ve done more in less,” he says, kissing her throat.

Billie giggles and tugs his t-shirt over his head. “Time to earn your nickname.”

He’s got one foot on the floor and her tights are hanging off her ankle when he finally pushes inside her, groaning as he’s flooded with relief. She holds his face in both hands as he begins to move, slow long strokes that he learned she liked in Welsh hotel rooms.

He kisses her, wet and needy, and imagines they’re back there now, beer bottles toppled over and scripts forgotten on the carpet. Then an ambulance blares from the street below and he comes rushing back to reality, but she’s moaning and clenching around him and, really, what does the past have on the present anyway?

There are things he knows today that he didn’t know back then, like how to make her come right away by angling his hips just so, or to pick up on the sound she makes just before she breaks so he can make sure he’s watching her face, like he’s doing right now.

“Fuck, oh god,  _fuck_.”

She clings to him, ankles linked behind his back, and he keeps the pace steady for as long as he can, letting her come down, but then he remembers the damn ticking clock and he’s driving into her hard and fast.

And he’s racing toward the finish, but he never wants to get there. There’s a pang in his chest as he rests his forehead against hers, and it’s like she knows -- like she feels it too -- because her hands are rubbing his back so softly that he’s afraid to look her in the eye.

It’s nearly too much, so he slips a hand between them and buries his face in her neck. She’s whispering something in choked out gasps as she grinds down on his fingers, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs.

The words don’t hit him until she’s moaning and quaking in his arms, arching rigidly against him and taking him with her, making him groan as he finally lets go.

He leans back to meet her gaze, panting and softening inside her, and he echoes her for the second time today.

“Deeply,” she says, smiling lazily.

“Hm?”

“That’s what you said earlier. Deeply.”

He chuckles and nuzzles her nose, lips grazing hers.

“That’s right,” he says. “Deeply.”

***

Billie leans her head against the cool plane window, watching the skyline below disappear. Her finger absently traces a new tear in her stocking just inside her knee.

She’s happy and haggard, like there’s a storm offshore and she’s been tossed around in the surf, and she wonders if he feels the same. The guilt hits her, then, and she tries to will it back; she hates that she’s always the one to leave.

It’s not long before the ocean stretches out beneath her, and when she can no longer make out the whitecaps of the waves her eyes begin to sting.

It’s alright, though. They say salt water is good for wounds.


End file.
